Conversations in the Rain
by Hemlock
Summary: The conclusion in Chapter 4 took even ME by surprise! I was thinking, since this is before Twilight, why not tie it in with everything? Bryan Cabot's decisions and how it affects everyone.
1. The Voice in the Rain

_Author's note: I must confess that I am a Twilight Virgin. Being that, I will first ask your forgiveness if I flesh out the characters in the wrong way. I hope I am not rubbing anyone the wrong way. That said, pleasepleaseplease leave a review... good or bad. I adore reviews. I can't live without them._

-

**Note: In case you're wondering, this happens two days before Edward Cullen meets Isabella Swan.**

Alaska is now a memory. Full of white and coldness, it really suited me well. Sometimes I wish that I would not have to leave. There is very little that I have to hide whenever we're in Alaska.

I glance over my shoulder. Rosalie, as usual, is looking at the mirror and tending to her blond curls. Emmet stares at her and the road alternately, his face breaks into a smile now and then. Jasper is looking at the passing scenery to his right, but really, nothing stays within his head, except for gratitude. Alice is tilting her head from left to right, then left again, as she stares at the headrest before her. Probably trying to see whether she will have a good class or a bad one. From the way her lips curve into a smile, it has to be good.

Everyone is full, satiated.

This will last probably until next month. Which is not bad at all. The catch has been a good one, and even Esme was happy with it. Carlisle has been nonchalant, though. It looks as if he has something in his mind.

I don't like to snoop around and poke into a mind, just because I can. Especially Carlisle's mind. It's like trying to peek into a parents' bedroom. After all, he is my parent, so to speak. He created me.

"Sunlight," Rosalie suddenly says, cutting off my reverie. I look skywards. True enough, the dark clouds hanging over us has broken up slightly and a few rays of sun shine through. We all lean back, trying to look as relaxed as possible. Avoiding sunlight has become a second nature, although there are no other cars on the road.

The dark clouds, however, gather again, and the sun is blotted out. There was a collective sigh, and we smile to each other - except for Jasper. Again, his thoughts are clouded over by emotions so dark and depressing that if I continued listening to him, it is enough to warrant me a trip to a shrink.

So I kick his left leg. (Alice, Jasper and I are sitting at the backseat, and he is in the middle.) His reactions are quick. (Aren't we all?) But mine is quicker. I grab his hand that is fast becoming a crooked talon, almost grazing my nose.

"You should really try compartmentalize," I say with a smile. "You know, put your thoughts in a box and store them away, that kind of thing."

Jasper tries to wriggle his wrist free, saying, "And you should stop believing what the mortals are saying." Somehow his fingers become closer, and he flicks at my nose. It was not painful, just irritating. I push his wrist away and give a snort. "They say a lot of things, but the world is never better from it." Jasper says as he looks at me, irritated, but there is a small note of thanks in his voice.

Alice watches us with the countenance of a confused yet happy child, as if watching us provides her with some sort of entertainment. Maybe she sees all that coming.

"All right, guys," Emmet says as he pulls over and parks at the school entrance. "Time to begin our punishments."

"That is getting so old," Alice chirps as she literally leaps out of the jeep. "By the way, Rosalie?"

"Yes? Do you have a prediction for me?" Rosalie asks in a tired voice. "Am I about to be run over by that Mike kid again?"

"No, no," Alice shakes her head, "but there will be a small accident and you..."

I stare at the school compound, ignoring Alice and Rosalie. How long has it been... three years? Four? I choose to forget. I spend my waking hours thinking about this, learning and learning, relearning, forgetting and learning again. It is a strange thing, being awake to a world that is sleeping. Stranger still to exist in a world that doesn't know we exist... or maybe the world simply refuses to acknowledge our existence.

Yet here we are, standing amidst the entirely clueless throng of children who are turning into grown men and women. If I willed it, all two hundred students here will die in less than an hour.

My hands are balled into a pair of fists. I close my eyes, breathe slowly, and open them, only to be slapped at the back by Emmet's strong palm. But his eyes are concerned.

"You okay?" he asks in a whisper. Rosalie stares at me and Emmet's concern is mirrored in her eyes, too.

I try to give them a smile and a nod. "Let's get going," I say, and walk toward the school.

-

Children are the same everywhere. In arriving at their class, they would rather crawl than run. It is, however, a complete opposite with recess.

We, however, would meet in the main hallway first, then take our sweet time walking down the corridors leading toward the cafeteria. The food - I mean, the children, are having a ball eating, gossiping, leering and creating their own clicks. The nerds trying to look cool, the cool trying to be superior, the girls preen and flirt. It's a normal highschool recess.

We sit in the corner that faces a group of tall trees, for obvious reasons. It serves three purposes: we are away from the crowd, the crowd does not realise we are watching them, and the sun would never give us away should the clouds suddenly break apart.

Emmet and Jasper are talking about the next baseball game, while Rosalie and Alice are discussing her predictions. I, on the other hand, observe the crowd... and hear their thoughts. It is not a hobby. An action becomes a hobby when you do it to gain peace of mind. I do it because it sometimes provides me with a little amusement.

However, today there is little amusement to be found. They are all caught up by the sudden quiz the entire school had just been given. Some complain, others simply try to push the matter aside, and the rest decide that it is trivial. Only a small percentage are actually happy because they did well. I bet Angela Weber is one of them.

Still, though, I feel rather restless. There is another voice here. Darker.

Stronger.

Older.

I stand up. "I gotta go to the bathroom," I say as I walk away.

Alice is the one who realises that I am not going to the bathroom. _What is it? _

_Something's strange. I don't know why, but there is something strange here._

_Should I tell the others?_

_Not now. But don't worry, I won't be long._

I leave the cafeteria and turn right to the football field. It is drizzling,cloudy and cold. I don't feel all those things anymore. I break into a jog (which is really a run if seen by mortals) and feel that I am getting closer. Closer.

_Under the bleachers!_

I run toward the bleachers. The structure is located at the far end of the field, and I get there in no time at all. The drizzle is fast becoming a heavy rain, and judging from the way the dark clouds rolling towards the school, it can get ugly.

I shout over the rain: "Who are you!"

It is more an announcement than a warning. The voice in my head stops suddenly. From within the darkness of the bleachers a shadow moves. Rising, moving toward me. Then the shadow steps into the rain.

A young man stands before me, maybe 16 or 17 years old. His hair is wet, plastered to his head, but even wet I can see that he has curly hair. The face was unlined, young, handsome, even. But this is a facade, I tell myself, a mask.

"Well, you found me," he says under the rain. "Can't an old man die in peace?"

It is then I notice that in his right hand he has an army knife, easily seven inches long, and on other hand, a bottle that smells like gasoline. He is not wearing a coat but only a long-sleeved shirt. On his left arm are several deep gashes that is bleeding badly.

"I wanted to kill myself," he continues with a somewhat distracted smile on his face, "but even the weather tries to stop me..."

Then it hits me.

He is a vampire. Like me.

"And you," he says, as he sways in the rain that is becoming increasingly torrential, "you are in the way."

"Who are you?" I ask as gently as I can muster under the loud rain. I dare not make a move toward the protective bleachers; he may mistake it for an offensive move. "Are you – are you alone?"

"I am no longer alone now," he says. Under the limp daylight, his eyes neither glow red nor brown. They are simply black. Lifeless. Then the eyes disappear as he hangs his head low.

That's actually an oxymoron, since he is technically dead, anyway.

I hold out my hands in a calming stance. "Look, I mean you no harm. I heard you –"

"Heard me?" His head comes up suddenly, his face a sudden flash of white from within the shadowy cover of the bleachers. "What do you mean, heard me? How?"

Shall I tell him that his dark thoughts are much, much louder than Jasper's? Will he be offended, anyway? "Your suicidal thoughts distract me to no end," I say slowly.

"What are you, a mind reader?" he asks yet again, as if he has not heard me. Seeing no other way escaping it, I nod my head. He sighs and shakes his head slowly. Then he retreats into the shadows again. I can barely make him out within the shadows. I decide then to follow him...

But I meet the sharp point of the knife, barely touching my chest. I shook my head.

"You know very well that there is no point of that," I say to him.

"I know," he says with an estranged smile. "But I feel like doing it."

"What's stopping you, then?" I ask, as my whole body immediately braces itself for action.

That somehow makes him think his action over and over. "Leave me," he says finally, pointing the knife away from me and turning his back to me. I , on the other hand, decides to pursue my former query.

"Are you alone?"

"Of course I am alone!" he suddenly turns and screams at me. "I have nobody! What part of the fact that you don't understand?!"

I simply stare back, my lips a grim set of line. "Vampires usually live with at least one or two others. What happened to your coven?"

"I don't have one," he says simply. "Now, can I at least have a dignified death?

Not until you answer all of my questions, I say to myself. "Why are you so desperate to die?"

The rain has become a drizzle again, slower this time. This time I can see the guy properly as the sun shines pallidly in the overcast sky. His eyes, though black, are brimming with emotions. The left eyebrow must have been partially torn due to some old (ancient?) incident, leaving the left eyebrow slashed into two unequal parts. His cheeks are hollow and his chin is pointed and sharpened by the hunger, but with little imagination, I can see a rather handsome person – once properly fed.

"How long has it been since you last fed?" I ask conversationally as I lean against the bleachers. He looks at me as if I have just offered to castrate him.

"A long time. Enough to kill the entire school," he said, matter-of-factly.

"But you won't. Why?"

I hear the knife falls onto the concrete with a clatter. I turn to him, and he to me.

"You can know the answers," he began. "But you will make a promise to me."

Somehow I know what the promise will be. But I let him spell it out himself.

I nod my agreement.

With a wide smile, he says: "You must kill me."

-

-

To be continued.


	2. No Choice is A Choice

**2. NO CHOICE IS A CHOICE  
**

-

Author's note: Thanks to man-on-a-mission and icrodriguez, your reviews made me feel welcome! And in the meantime as I try to absord the universe of twilight, I scour the the local watering holes to get some ideas on how to flesh out the characters properly. It's a craft long gone, but it's all coming back to me now. Slowly. One at a time. Meanwhile, read the second chapter already! And don't forget to review... please?

-

_And Esau said, Behold, I am at the point to die: and what profit shall this birth-right bring to me?  
Genesis 25:32_

-

"Do you remember the first pain?"

I flinch at the question. Why does he have to ask that question? Isn't it his turn to talk? I turn to him, but his eyes are focused at the parking lot that is divided by a stretch of concrete wall that are waist-high. We have exchanged names: his is Bryan Cabot.

But to his current question, I answer, "I do. I still do."

"Don't we all." He glances at me, then back to the parking lot. "I was born in Middlesex, England. 1897. I was created in Anatolia, Turkey, however."

I raise one brow. "That's quite far from your birthplace. What happened?"

Bryan chuckled humourlessly. "I thought you can listen to minds. Or," he turns and squints at me, "whatever that is you do."

"Come on," I say conversationally, "I'm being nice here, I'm giving you privacy."

He shrugged. After a long pause, he says, "Well, war happened. The first World War, to be exact.

"In 1915, I found myself amongst those who were taken as POWs. We were forced to march from Kut, Mesopotamia to Anatolia. There I was among those who laboured in the Taurus Mountains train tracks. If war was hell, us POWs got backstage passes for hell.

"You wish for Death, but Death somehow stayed away; you wish for your government to know that you're still alive, yet the news you got became depressing each passing day; you envied those who died, because they escaped without really trying..."

Bryan coughs, probably to cover that cracking voice of his, and he goes on:

"I was at my wits' end after a week. Almost everyone I knew, whether those who were from the same company, or friends that I had gained during the march, were all dead. I felt my mind - my sanity, really - was hanging by a thread. One night, I thought I had really lost it.

"I thought I heard, as I tried to sleep on the sandy ground, someone was playing a string instrument. It was already late into the night when I heard it, and the guards were not around, so I slowly got up and followed the sound. It led me down to a quiet valley save for the music I kept hearing in my head. As I saw a small cave under the stars, a voice stopped me. It was a woman's.

"She told me to stay where I was, and I wondered whether I should do as I was bid or run back. Then she asked me whether I would like to hear her play. I told her, why not? It was quite a while since I heard anything that beautiful, I said."

Bryan smiles, perhaps recalling that memory in his mind. I notice that his expression has softened somewhat. _I never regretted that decision._ That thought slips out of him, even as I try my best not to hear it.

"Let's do sit down," I tell him, breaking his reveries.

We both sit down. A clatter beside him attracts my attention. Under the overcast sky, I see the army knife, stained by a few specks of blood. Then at his left arm, where I have bound the wounds there with his left shirt arm. The wounds do not bleed anymore, or maybe the blood inside him is running out. I don't know whether I should be on my guard or not.

"When I said that I would like to hear her play, there was quite a long pause. I of course wondered to myself whether all that talking had been a result of my mind had been totally unhinged, that I had been talking to myself as a result of my mental breakdown - but her voice came back, floating in the night like the scent of a jasmine bouquet. 'I'm afraid that you can't afford it,' she said.

" I had to laugh. Of course I can't afford it! The only thing that I had with me was a pair of tattered army-issued khaki pants and a belt, and I didn't even think that they would fetch much price, being in the conditions that they were. I told her that, and was prepared to walk back to the camps when she told me again to stop, and that I 'do have something that is more precious than your possessions.'

"My curiosity was immediately piqued. There was nothing else on me, I told her, other than these ragged clothes. She, in turn quickly said, 'Your life.'

"It was a trap, I thought.

"She had lured me into this valley, for the sole purpose of killing me. I looked around for a weapon of some kind. She probably sensed my feelings - she immediately said that this was no trap, that if I really wanted to hear her play, there was to be some kind of payment, and that was the only sort of payment that she could accept. And that I was free to walk away from it."

I find that it is convenient for me to slip in and out of his mind, looking at the memories as he speaks about them. And at this particular moment, Bryan's mind is as clear as a shadowless lake. I can hear his emotions and thoughts about these reminiscences.

Comparing it to my experience, I now realise why this moment stands out the most in his memory... and possibly the reason why Bryan is pondering the ultimate act of defiance.

Bryan absently touches the right side of his neck. "It was something that I, never in a thousand years, would think of standing face to face with."

Smiling bitterly at the irony of his own words, he continues. "I was torn then, between that offer and the possibility that we would be saved from this hellhole. But the more I thought of the choices, the latter seemed to be more distant than ever. With the political parleying, I wondered if I was ever going home again. So I told her -"

_Let me hear you play the most beautiful melody that can come from a box of wood, four metal strings and a bow - then I can die in peace._

Bryan never said those words aloud - in fact he says something else altogether; cruder, simpler. I am fascinated by this contradiction, the way he contradicts his own memories. Maybe it's his way of censuring, whitewashing the memories from the facts. But his memories prove to be resilient, and it would not stay down and take any beating in silence.

_She fell silent, and slowly I heard a strange chord being struck within the cave._

_"Don't tell me, you're a bad violin player."_

_"I am not!" she said from within the darkness._

_I laughed. "And to think that I paid to listen to you with my life..."_

_¨This is called tuning, you ignorant."_

_But I was not satisfied with this one-sided contact. "Can a dying man ask another request?"_

_The chords fell silent. "Sure."_

_"Come out and play it for me here, in the open. It's a nice night, after all."_

_"I would rather not," she replied._

_"I won't see you again afterwards, so what's the point in this shyness?"_

_I heard her sigh, a resigned sigh, and saw movement at the mouth of the cave. As she stumbled out, I moved toward her, to stop her from falling. Her lips fell upon the right side of my neck, and she gasped. I gasped, too, from the coldness of her skin, of her lips. She looked at me, tilting her head up, and I saw the dark pools of her eyes, reflecting the stars above. There was no fear within them, just weariness and - hunger._

_She had the features of a Gypsy - dark skin, long hair that fell in abundance about her face and down her back. Her lips were pursed in an effort - I didn't know what was she trying to hold back at that time, but now I know what it was._

_In a different time, I would not have considered her as a beauty. Here, however, in the semidarkness, with the stars above us and the desert air flinging her strangely scentless breath at me, she was an obsidian Venus. Dark, goddess-like...distant, even as she stood before me.  
_

_I mustered a smile. It was too dark to see me smile, anyway. She pushed me away with that small, cold hand of hers, and stood still, the violin and bow in one hand while the other pushed my chest._

_"All right," I said to her, "I'll stay away."_

_But her hand, too quick for me to see, grabbed me at my shoulder lightly. "No," she said, turning me around with formidable strength - or maybe I was weak at that time._

_"No," she repeated. "Sit beside me."_

_I sat beside her as she stood there and placed the bow on the strings. Almost imperceptibly, a melody poured out from the instrument. It reminded me of a a bird - a nightingale in twilight, that flew skyward and sang its song leisurely, almost lustily, into the air, ignoring the sighs of the breeze. It sang and sang, and at the moment where she hit the high note and held it, almost reverently, I closed my eyes and smiled. _

_If a life could be taken this leisurely, mankind would flock to their deaths.  
_

_I was happy, and was ready to die._

_But I was not prepared for the pain that followed._

"That was the condition, anyway," Bryan says.

I force myself out of his train of thought, to see his face. I can see the gleam in his eyes, recalling that moment. "I was happy, and she was ready to take the payment."

"Were you prepared for the pain?" I ask, although I have known the answer already.

His face hardens. "I was," he says, his lips a grim line.

I nod gently, not bothering to question him.

Contradictions.

-

-

To be continued...


	3. Toll

**3. toll**

**-**

**Author's note: Oh, thank you so much for those who have been kind enough to review! Here's another chapter, and I will try my best to keep them coming as fast as possible. BTW, George the Toaster is the creepiest antagonist I have ever read in the Twilight Fanfic. LOL! Respect to FuzzySlippers19! Weirdness rules!**

**-  
**

_...no one ever died  
from wanting too much..._

- Garbage

-

"Then what?" I prompt him. Obviously, he's going to tell me about the moment he was created.

"She left," Bryan says simply, looking at me in a sly way. It reminds me of what Emmet would look like before he wrestles either me or Jasper.

"_What?_"

I can barely hide my disappointment. "You're waxing lyrical about your dark Venus's beauty, her looks, and the impending pain, and now you tell me _she left_?" I mean, I sit here for maybe fifteen to twenty minutes, in the rain, and here is the climax that I wait for.

Well, the climax sucks.

Suddenly Bryan lets out a chuckle, this time a surprisingly light, real amused chuckle that shakes his whole body. He then stares at me, once he gets a firm hold of himself.

"For someone who has been living for quite some time, you, Edward, have no patience whatsoever," he remarks.

"I do have patience," I say, "it's the rotten climax that sucks."

He slaps me in the back. I have to wonder, as he arranges himself on the underside of the bleachers in order to sit better, whether Bryan Cabot really has made up his mind to have himself killed. As time passes, he looks saner, so to speak.

"Let's see," he says, pursing his lips, "ah, yes... I woke up early next morning, finding myself still intact and alive in the middle of the valley."

"Wait, wait," I cut him, "she left you still human." Bryan glances at me, half-expecting that from me. "But I thought she wanted you life as a payment. I don't understand this."

"I didn't understand that either... at the time." Bryan looks wistful, and after a pause, he asks me, "May I continue?"

"By all means," I nod.

"It was near dawn, to be precise. I looked around me, half-expecting the Turks to surround the valley. But it was probably too far from the work camps, and I thought I could either escape or die... both choices were good for me. But my mind was set on looking for the dark mysterious woman.

"I stumbled back into her cave, where she had been. But the best that I could see was that the cave was empty. She had already left. And judging by the undisturbed sands around the area, I doubt that she would have travelled out of the valley. There had to be some other way... maybe via this cave. And so I decided to investigate the cave. It turned out that it contained a large network of caves and underground rivers. Water never tasted that good!" He smiles at this memory. "You know the feeling – it's like your first human blood after a decade or two of abstinence."

I close my eyes. "Don't remind me," I warn him.

"Moving on," Bryan says dismissively, "And water was not the only thing I found there. Living in the heart of the cave networks were vampires – two of them. They called themselves Marsilius and Melissa."

I raise an eyebrow. "Sounds like a bad attempt for a 50's band name," I comment.

Bryan nods solemnly. I don't know whether he really gets the joke or not. He goes on:

"Well, they told me that I could get through, but I had to pay the price. I didn't think twice; I told them I'd agree, but not until they answer my question: did a woman – small, dark-skinned, holding a violin – pass this way too?

"They answered yes, and that nobody around here could pass unless they paid first. I told them to take their payment from me.

"Marsilius had the honours to bite my forearm. I could feel myself begin to burn from that part. Melissa could only watch with a look that I can only say half-worried, half jealous. When he was almost to the point of no return, she quickly yanked him off my arm. Then she unceremoniously shoved my shaking, almost dying body out through the mouth of the cave that would ultimately lead me to the other side of the valley – toward my freedom, or death.

"For two days and nights, all I could think of was dying." He lifts his arms and looks at them with a regretful expression. "I was free, but I was also burning from the venom that was coursing through my veins. Death was always dancing at my arms' length, yet every time I tried to reach for it, it danced further away.

"With every move I made, however, my body began to recognise and assimilate the venom in me. I realised, with horror and amazement, that I was getting stronger, that the _venom_ actually made me stronger. At times, I could feel my skin was pulling open, and other times I felt like there were unseen wounds, closing and healing. And the hunger -"

Here he suddenly swallows back a strangled gasp. I turn to look at a pair of eyes, glowing red, like the lights a dying battery would produce. Bryan draws in a quick breath and turns away. Then I hear somebody chuckling from beyond the parking lot – in fact, outside of the school boundaries. A girl run away from the school compound, somehow undiscovered by the guard. With her is a senior that I recognise from the Spanish class.

They run hand in hand, possibly off to skip school, dangerously oblivious of Bryan's increasingly manic teeth-gnashing. It is fortunate that the rain somewhat dilutes their scent, which are rather appetising, even for me, in my current satiated state.

An almost unrecognisable thought slips out of Bryan.

_I have to feed - _

Immediately I catch his neck and arm in cold, hard grips, holding him in place. Bryan looks at me, the monster and the human within him stare back at me from red and black eyes respectively. The monster is vehement, the human pleading.

_Do I look like that?_ I think coolly, trying to repress a shudder deep within my head. _Does Carlisle see me like that when I have that urge to feed on humans?_

I keep staring back at him, at both sides, trying to restrain him. All the while he is struggling to get up, his legs trying to stand, and his arms wildly flailing at his sides. The bleachers actually rise for one moment as we struggle. I hope no one is looking at the fields today.

Finally Bryan growls once, screws his eyes shut and clamps his nose, tight as he could. Only then I realised that I've been holding his left arm in a tight grip – the arm that he's cut himself. I let it go, expecting blood in my hands. But I could only see the bandage trailing my clean hand as I let it go.

The wounds have all healed.

Bryan opens his eyes, and they are both black now, limpid under the sunless clouds. He notices my reaction. "You see my dilemma now? In fact," he says as he unbinds the rest of the bandages, "I've been trying to kill myself for a long time now. Fate, however, chose to deal a card, that, I realised later on, did not matter much at all... in fact a card that I was better off without."

His arms are now healed – fully healed – in fact it is as if there has been no injury at all. Not even a scar is visible. Yet there have been three or four deep cuts in his arms earlier. Bryan rubs the area where his wounds have been, and shakes his head glumly.

"When I found out that I could live both on human and animal blood, I tried my best to stick to the latter choice. But during the war, troops would get lost, a lone soldier could wander off by himself, a fighter pilot or a parachute jumper could somehow survive his fall or jump... those were where I got my sustenance. It could easily be mistaken as death by accident... and it was war time. Enemies would have simply thought that some other company had gotten there before they would..."

I nod slowly, still fascinated by the ability that Bryan has. I mean, I know most vampires heal considerably fast enough, but even the toughest has to give around a day at least to recover. Emmet comes to mind, him battling a grizzly. Bryan, on the other hand, healed up, patched up, and get the scars disappear in less than an hour! The only thing that can beat him is a werewolf.

"What happened to the pair – Marsilius and Melissa?" I ask, wondering aloud about the two.

Bryan smiles tightly. "If you must know, they died during the seventies. Somehow, they got in a row with the wrong kind of vampires. In Vegas, of all places. They both were torn apart and burnt in the middle of the desert. Something about cheating on the poker table. Too many times."

I actually snicker. "Poker table? Undignified," I blurt out. "But that's an undeserving end, dying like a pair of cheaters."

"Actually," Bryan cuts in, "they did go down they way they deserved. But that's neither here nor there."

From the way his smile curls on his lips, I suspect that there is more to that than Bryan is letting on. But I prompt him to go on with his narration. I must remember to bring that up later, though.

"Well, I wandered, for the longest time. I found my way to civilisation, found out that war was over, and crossed the Bosphorus Straits. I eked out a life there by becoming a bellboy in the Tokatlian Hotel. 'Twas a good pay, managed to saved some for myself, enough to go home. Before the second war broke out, I managed to secure myself a passage back to England on a ship.

"I didn't know why it was important for me to go home. Maybe it was like tying some loose ends, before I got on with my search." He notices my look. "Oh no, I never forget my main aim, Edward. Never, for a second, I forget her face under the moonless night. Every night that I lay awake is filled with her presence, and yet, I am so alone.

"As soon as I arrived in Middlesex, I immediately went to the local registrar in the town hall. I didn't want to ask around – my hometown was small and everyone knew anyone that was once alive and still alive there. Almost immediately I found my answer – bittersweet as it was.

"The obituary was heartfelt, written by a relative. Poetically it described that when I was classified by the Army as Missing-Believed Killed, it apparently was too heavy a toll for my parents' hearts. The announcement came in 1919; they died the following year. I visited their graves, and was feeling reasonably sad, but there were no tears."

That actually made me feel quite angry. With a harsh tone, I turn to him and say, "That's cruel, Bryan. Your parents died grieving a son who was, well..."

I find myself at a loss of words. Bryan harrumphs mockingly, triumphantly.

"Dead? Yet I was standing over their graves. But I can be barely called _alive_. It doesn't carry very well with the whole notion, don't you think?"

"Did you feel no deep sadness at all?" I ask him, trying to make him clarify his lack of sadness.

"No," he replies, unsurprisingly. "They were dead, thinking that their child died in battle. Which is way better than them alive and knowing that their son is a walking aberration. You must think that I am awfully selfish to think so little of my parents -"

"Of course I _do_!"

"- however, think of the consequences if they knew I was still alive and was _something else _– something that they did not understand."

That effectively made me conjure up a scene I eerily find not hard to imagine.

What would my parents think if they see me alive, after so many years of my death announced so boldly in papers... would they run to embrace me, or would they run in the opposite direction, guns blazing at me?

"That would cut me deeper than any wound could have," Bryan says, his voice passionate, husky, as if following my thoughts. "I would rather let them leave with all the sunny memories of me."

I sigh in defeat. _So would I_, I echo him in my head.

"That was the loose end I had tied up. With that done, I resumed my search for her. Yes, Edward, I still remember her. I confess, I am completely enamoured by her. Again, I risk myself sounding quite selfish if I say that I was blind to all but her existence. I must exist within _her existence_, and all else matters no more.

"But how do I begin my search? I had a small stroke of luck with the aid of the latest technology of the day: phonograph discs.

"When I uprooted myself from Middlesex and lived in London, I became a typist instructor at night and a typist for a company by day. Don't make that face. They're not glamorous, womanly, even - but I was very good at typing, and the mortals were ignorant of everything else but for the fact that I could type blindingly fast, and I got the jobs done.

"To pass by the nights, I spent a little on a phonograph machine, then on records. By and by I stumbled upon a recording of Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen. London Symphony Orchestra accompanied a solo violinist named Amerta Dickson.

"Unlike CDs nowadays, the sleeve never had the photo of the artist. But as I listened to the first strains of the piece, I knew instantly that this was her. The violinist was my obsidian Venus that I saw once before! There could be no mistake! Finally I could put a name to the face that I had been looking all these years."

I am staring at him in wonder. "How do you..." I don't finish my question. It's too weird to ask.

"Yes?" Bryan asks me.

"How do you live with that thought only?" I ask, after thinking out the right words through several pauses. "I mean, living on the notion that you will find her. What if, you never found that recording? Would you still be looking for her?"

"I don't like to think of that," Bryan replies with the deepest certainty. "But in your hypothetical query, should I never find that recording, I will continue to search for her. No matter how long it takes."

The last sentence seems to pierce inside him, the way he winces when he realises what he has just said. Quickly he waves that aside.

"I found her, nevertheless," Bryan continues with a sharp retort, as if trying to make a point across. "I found her, and I began sending letters to the recording company. My letters were all polite but insistent pleas to meet the violinist. You can say that I am the modern equivalent of a die-hard fan."

We both stare at each other and laugh aloud. After we finally cease laughing, Bryan continued:

"They must have gotten very tired of my letters – I sent three letters per day once – and one day along came a reply. It stated that the violinist have agreed to meet me, in the London Ritz on a particular day. I was more than happy – and you know London can be rather wet, so I had no problem coming out during the day.

"The day finally came, and I was as nervous as a schoolboy. I waited for her in the café of the hotel, a bouquet of flowers in hand, and since I fed myself properly the night before, I managed to stay calm and collected – civil, I believe the word is. And when suddenly a long-faced man announced her arrival, I almost jumped out of my chair. I stared as she entered thecafé, stared as she stood before me, stared as I stood up to greet her.

"She was not too short. She had thick, dark hair that framed her face beautifully. She smiled at me and, even gasped delightedly as I presented to her the bouquet of flowers, but her eyes showed not a glimmer of recognition. None at all.

"I didn't blame her. That woman who stood before me was not my obsidian Venus."

-

-

_To be continued..._


	4. Mistake

**4. mistake**

**-**

**A/N: Here is the conclusion to the little series. I hope you liked it as much as I loved trying to make sense of Bryan Cabot's life.**

**-  
**

Count the years, you always knew it  
Strike a match, go on and do it.

Days go by I'm hypnotized  
I'm walking on a wire  
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind  
Into the fire -  
oh, light the sky and hold on tight  
the world is burning down...

- Shawn Colvin, _Sunny came home_

_-  
_

"So," I say as I stare at him, "you're wrong, after all. All that certainty came to naught."

Bryan shakes his head, almost defiantly. "I was right. The poor woman trembled when I exerted upon her to tell me the truth. She said she was merely Ms Dickson's ears and mouthpiece to the world, more like a companion than an agent. Ms Dorothy Sawyer – that's her name – told me that Ms Dickson thought I would not be all the wiser whether it was her or some other woman were to come and meet me that day. But Ms Sawyer thought that it would be better not to continue the charade any more and she decided to come clean.

"Ms Dickson, it turned out, possessed quite an eccentric personality. She would only come to London for recording sessions or live performances, all of which would be handled directly by Ms Sawyer. I asked for a personal meeting with Amerta and the answer was an immediate No. That, of course, served only to fan my burning curiosity.

"I reverted to stalking. Several days I followed Ms Sawyer, to no avail. Then one day she took a train down to Salisbury, which I immediately followed. Days later, I found myself standing in front of a small cottage, homey as cottages could be. I stared after the departing Ms Sawyer as I hid myself in the woods that bordered the cottage, waiting for Amerta to come out.

"She came out at last, tending to a small garden in her yard. It took every restraint in my brain to stop myself from calling out her name. She was as I recalled she had been: dark-skinned, long wavy locks, petite. A little old woman walked past her cottage and called at her. Amerta left her garden so she could have small talk with her. Then the sun broke out of the clouds."

Bryan stops there. His face is strained with pain. I don't bother to ask.

"I nearly jumped out of the woods to save her from herself. But there was no need. The sun shone upon her – and I could see how foolish I had been. She – was not a vampire. Never has been one since that night. And here I was, a twisted creature, looking for her all the while, thinking she was also a creature like me.

"But she was not. I could have been content to leave it there. But I had to ask one question before I try to forget her.

"That night, I sneaked into the cottage as soon as I saw all lights within it were extinguished. I could locate her within the darkness, and stood over her bed. Her window was open, and the moon was shining in the sky. It lent some of its rays into the room, and I was able to see her as she slept like a child. I saw one hand lay atop her blanket, and I knelt down to kiss it.

"As I did, her hand shook and it woke her up. She was understandably scared at first, but I told her that I meant no harm, and when she asked me who I was, I moved so that she could see me clearer by aid of moonlight. She was shocked, to say the least.

"'You still recognise me,' I said. She nodded slowly, still speechless. 'Tell me, then, what actually happened that night.'

"Slowly she began, her tears flowing. 'It was _my_ fault... I thought I could make it to Istanbul without much issue, then I found that my only way through was blocked by a pair of vampires... they told me either I give up my life to get through, or get someone else to pay it on my behalf... I was wondering to myself if it was worth it, and played something to ease my mind – then _you came_...

"'It was so easy to be selfish at that time... all I could think about was my talent, and how I could never shine the brightest if I were to become a vampire – with all the complications... so I tricked you into agreeing, and informed the pair that I had you as my payment to them.' She looked at me with tears in her eyes. 'Will you ever forgive me? Can you ever...? You see... I don't even know your name..."

Bryan shakes his head. It seems that recalling this episode was painful to him. "I told her mine, and she smiled bitterly. 'Now I know the man whom I owe my life to,' she said, nodding her head. 'Are you here to claim your payment, then?'

"My head was a battlefield of emotions since I put my plans into motion – but, now, when everything was lost, love quietly won. I sat on her bed, close enough to see the uncertainty in her eyes. I took her hands that were wringing in pain and closed them around my face. My smile must have been a balm to her feelings, because she also smiled, though still a bit uncertainly.

"I kissed her hands, the hands that brought us together in that dark night in Anatolia, that saved me from an earthly hell, and made me reborn.

"'I think, we do owe each other something,' I said. 'You owe me your life, and I owe you my rebirth. That cancels out each other outright.'

"'But I have doomed you – doomed you to this miserable existence!' she cried.

"I shook my head. 'My dear Amerta, as a passionate musician, you must know the greatest thing one can – _will – _do for love.' At that, her eyes widened in realisation.

"'You _love_ me? Even after _this_?'

"I kissed her on the lips. It was the profoundest moment in my life. And she responded in kind, too. I had to break away, though, and said, 'Yes, I do love you that much. And no, I was never looking for you to claim payment – I was only looking for _you_. You took away something within me and I could never rest within... each day, each year passing, it became a dull ache, and only felt worse.'

"'Then take my life and be rid of that pain,' she said with deep conviction, her eyes flashed with anger. 'I have caused you pain – my dear angel of mercy – take it!'

"I disagreed. 'The dull ache made me realise that, even with this condition of un-life, I know that I am still alive. I know because every time I see the night sky, I am reminded by that ache of the time under the stars, of your voice, of your smell. My heartbeat now is you.'

"She broke into sobs again, and I had to bring her head to me where she can lie, sobbing to her heart's content. 'I don't want to be your pain,' she said between her sobs.

"'It's better now,' I told her. 'Live for me. Be the most brilliant violinist the world will see. And when you look into the shadows, remember that I am there, always behind you, looking out for you.'"

Bryan looks away. I wonder if the last sentence are his last ever words said to Amerta.

"She died in 1989. Last century's greatest female violinist – some thought the greatest _ever –_ died, from old age, surrounded by her family and grandchildren in Vienna. I was there, too, unnoticed, of course. Before she passed away, she smiled at me and said she will try to ask around if there was a place for a damned beautiful soul like mine.

"I survived two world wars, the Korean war, the Vietnam war, and, 2 years after her death, in a fit of madness, I tried to enlist for the Gulf War, only to be stopped by the Volturi. Something about my face becoming too obvious in the Army records. They instead offered me a better way to die – become their informant in the Americas. I went back, joined small wars that erupted now and then in the south of this continent, but I still survived. I got tired of this, and told the Volturi that I wanted out, and would never bother anyone any more."

He looks at his weapons of choice for suicide. "But now I am sorry that I have to bother someone after all these years."

I take a deep breath, still trying to reason with him. "Why not try live it out day by day? Maybe the ache will disappear."

"The ache _has_ disappeared. That's why I know I am no longer living, because it has dissipated into nothingness. When there is no ache, there is no life any more, for me."

"You have to exist within her existence, is that it?"

He nods. "Now she exists no more."

"We'll help him," says a new voice beside us. I look up and there is Alice, with Jasper beside him. Their eyes are kind and understanding.

"Did you see that?" I ask her. She nods sadly. "Is there no other way but _that?_"

"When someone makes up his mind, the road is terribly clear," Alice speaks calmly. "And Bryan here makes up his mind a long time ago, thus his future is also clear and sharp."

Emmet appears beside Bryan. "Come on. Let me bring you to our place."

Twelve minutes later we arrive at our home. It's already twilight. Carlisle's already waiting at the front porch. His eyes are kindly and calm. "Welcome, Bryan," he says. "This is quite a -" he pauses, trying to think of a suitable word, then finally settles on "a rare happening. Alice is rather adamant that we should help you in – passing."

Bryan smiles at him. "You have a gentle way, dear friend. I wonder how have you survived all those long, long years."

Carlisle's lips curves into a smile. "We have our ways of coping. Come. Do sit here, and we shall discuss it."

We leave them to chat, maybe to decide on which shall be the best way to – for lack of a better word – kill him. I don't feel any tension in the air at all. In fact, this feels more like a social visit from a long lost friend than a trying to fulfil a fellow vampire's morbid request.

It's already dark outside when Esme suddenly appears before us. "A call for your father. Is he outside?"

Carlisle and Bryan enters. "I've been expecting that," Carlisle sighs. "Is it Jane?"

"It's Caius," she says in a whisper, as if we can't hear it. She hands over the phone to him. Carlisle greets Caius genially, as I try not to peek into this conversation.

"He's here." A pause. "Oh, yes. He was one of you, but you let him go nicely – Caius." The name is said with a flat tone. "Listen, I beg of you. He wants to go this way. It's his decision. You -" another pause follows, and Carlisle is biting his lips as he uttered uh-huhs. "No, Caius. That is unnecessary. Alice told me about this – you remember her, right? Yes, the one with the vision." A longer pause follows. Carlisle nods as he suddenly turns to Bryan, who is looking at his feet in complete silence. "No – I see what you mean. But he is not a _thing_, Caius. He is in the right frame of mind. Nobody is forcing the decision on him – you thought _me_?"

Carlisle's voice now is one of the closest he has ever been to anger, and believe me, not even _I_ want to be around whenever he's angry. "I'm a doctor, for goodness' sake! What the hell – oh, so you think, just because euthanasia's in fashion all over Europe now, I have to follow the rage?!"

Esme glides close to him, holding his shoulders in a comforting grasp. "Honey," she whispers, "the children are around... you don't want to provoke the Volturi..."

I have to laugh – this sounds both homely _and_ out of place. It's like watching the Brady Bunch lining up the stairs, only to kill each other later.

"Sorry," he whispers to Esme over the phone. Then he returns back to his conversation, his voice a level, reasonable tone now. "Caius, I beg you to understand. Besides, he is tired, after all."

We all turn to a corner as a loud gasp escapes. It is Alice, and after half a second, she looks at us. "No, Bryan," she says, immediately running to him. "No... don't reconsider. I've seen it – don't reconsider, please..."

Bryan was clueless for a moment, then remembers her ability. "Tell me what you see, should I choose to live," he hisses, grabbing her wrists. "Tell me!"

Jasper is beside her in a flash, worry creasing his forehead. "Unhand her," he mutters dangerously under his breath.

"No, Jasper," Alice gasps. "I'm okay." Then she rises, her hands still within Bryan's grasps. "If you choose not to die now, we will have to kill you in the future," she says in a cracked voice, her face twisting with the agony of her prophesy.

"Why?!" Bryan shouts madly.

A tear rolls down her cheek as Alice loses her composure completely. "Because you will murder someone that _Edward will love deeply_! Do you want to see him as hollow as you are now?"

It isn't Alice's impassioned plea that shocks me. It's my name combined with a word that I, never in a thousand years, would think of hearing side by side. And for the first time, after I don't know how many decades, I feel goosebumps running down my hands.

Bryan stares at Alice with a dazed look in his eyes. Jasper's whole body is a tight spring, ready to uncoil at the slightest sign of danger. Emmet's and Rosalie's are, too. But it is all for naught. Bryan smiles a sad smile, sits down slowly, and covers his face. His shoulders are shaking – I have no idea whether he is laughing or crying. Then he recovers, and motions at Carlisle to give him the phone.

"Caius," he says into the phone with a familiarity so foreign to us, "I'm prepared to die. Don't tell Jane to use that power on me – you're wasting your time." There is a pause, which Bryan immediately cuts. "Caius, listen to me. You always say that without pain, there is no pleasure. I don't find pleasure in this life any more, Caius. Did you hear what the young Sybil said just now? I don't want to put two young people in that kind of agony – it's enough for me alone to have felt it." He falls silent, and I hear Caius's voice crackling over the phone.

"Don't come here, okay? I know my decision – I'm sane. It's final." A long pause. "Yeah. Tell the two I'll miss them too." Slowly then he gives back the phone to Carlisle.

Bryan rises, his eyes suddenly clear, his voice light. "I think I'd rather be burnt. Cast my ashes in the wind, Carlisle, and leave no memorial for me. I already have one in a lonely village in Middlesex."

Carlisle nods as Esme holds his hands. Alice smiles through the torrent of tears, mumbling her thanks endlessly, with Jasper at her elbow. Rosalie and Emmet are the ones who seem unsure how to react.

As for me, even as they set out on the grisly task of dismembering Bryan Cabot, my mind is in a daze. Even as Bryan stops them, calls for me and asks me to take care of _her_, before they also cut off his neck, my mind is _still _in a daze. My eyes, though, are still clear, and I can see everything with disconcerting clarity.

I have never seen Emmet dismember anything with such _gentleness_. You can't dismember anything with real gentleness, but with Emmet, he twists the joints in one clean, economical move that effectively snap them in two. In stark contrast, normally, he would rather let his grizzlies suffer, drawing out the pains to the breaking point, losing himself in their agonised screams of horror and pain.

We have laid him out carefully upon the pyre. Alice gives me a brand, silently asking me to burn the pyre we have prepared. I walk toward it, and somehow meets Bryan's sad but relieved face. He still has much sense in his dismembered self to see me.

"Thank you, Bryan Cabot." I say in a low voice, meant only for him. "I guess – you showed me something that I thought was long gone."

He winks once at me, then closes his eyes. I let the fiery brand fall and move back. The pyre burns brightly, speedily.

When the pyre dies out, Alice and Esme collect the ashes and place them inside an urn. She climbs up into the trees and I see that she follows Bryan's orders exactly. But she brings down the urn with her.

That night, a strange kind of tranquil blankets our home.

I rummage through my long lines of recording, and find one old vinyl record that doesn't have any cover on it, just a note that I have written a long time ago to remind me of the artist's name. I read it:

_Amerta Dickson plays Bach_

_Ciaconna, from  
Partita No 2. in D minor_

The year was 1939. It was strange for me at the time, because an artiste back then wouldn't normally create a record for just one track only, unlike today's single-track CDs. Now, as I place the record on the player, I think I know why.

As I lie down on the couch, Amerta Dickson begins to play the first triple notes of Bach's mournful masterpiece.

-

P/S: That's it! The last chapter! But I have also published another piece, this time from Bella's POV, and it's nowhere as dark and despairing as this one. Please review, too!


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